coming home
by scribblingnellie
Summary: Home is where the heart is. And there's nowhere Greg Lestrade would rather be on a wet Christmas Eve. Some pure Greg and Molly Christmas fluff. Many thanks for reading.


Wet Christmas, they'd predicted. Absolutely drenched Christmas more like.

Greg looked out the car window, judging the short-ish distance between the car and his front door. Could he dash it? Putting up the umbrella was too much of a palaver.

Sod it.

Grabbing the Waitrose carrier bag, he threw open the car door and lunged out. Only waiting the couple of seconds for the locks to beep, he ran. Splashing his shoes and his trousers as he dashed through the large puddle on the footpath, Greg kept his focus on the front door. Like a blue beacon under the porch light. The hallway lights shone through the small glass fanlight; she said she'd be home before him. The thought warmed him as he ran up the path, the rosemary plants whacking wetly against his trousers, the smell filling his head. Molly. The rosemary bushes in the tiny front garden were her idea. As was painting the door blue. Actually quite a lot of things were ideas that Molly had thought of; he was more than happy to let her choose their garden plants and paint colours and whatever else she wanted in their home.

Pulling up quickly as he reached the small alcove, Greg smiled softly. Their home. A semi detached Edwardian in a nice quiet street; they got lucky with the seller and the price and pretty much everything about it - apart from the disaster of a front garden but then Molly revealed her green finger inclination and Greg was in awe at yet another side to her that he hadn't known.

Rummaging in his coat pocket, his fingers snatched at his house keys. Opening the door, he felt the warmth wrap around him. Home. A long, tough day at the Yard always made him thankful and glad for somewhere, and someone, so good to come back to.

Placing the bag on the floor, he dropped his keys onto the hall table and shrugged himself out of his wet coat, pushing his shoes off at the heel without bothering with the laces. Hand to the radiator, he let the heat soak in, taking the edge off the cold in his fingers; however often he promised her he'd remember his gloves, he invariably forgot. Hanging his coat next to hers, Greg let his hand brush across the soft red wool. He loved that she wore such gorgeous colours; a black coat like everyone else's just wouldn't be Molly.

That's one of the things he fell in love with. As well as her beautiful eyes and her generous concern for everyone around her and how she looked at him from the corner of her eye when she thought he wasn't watching and the way she stood up to the Holmes brothers.

'Molly?'

Picking up the carrier bag from the wooden floorboards, reminding himself to wipe up the little puddles of rain it had left behind, he started down the hall towards the kitchen. Passing the doorway into their front room, the vision caught at the corner of his eye; he stopped, backed up a step and found himself leaning against the doorframe.

Bloody hell, she was beautiful.

Curled up, fast asleep on their new red sofa, Molly's head lay on the cushion, her hands tucked together at her chest. Still in the green flowery shirt, blue cardigan and brown trousers that she'd kissed him goodbye in as she left the house that morning.

Quietly stepping through the doorway, Greg couldn't take his eyes from her. Her hair, let loose from its ponytail, was draped over the cushion and her shoulder; the flickering light from the fire stove catching the delicate auburn highlights. Looking behind him, he saw that she'd got a good blaze going. And there was another thing he'd fallen in love with - Molly could build a fire and have it burning beautifully in less than ten minutes.

Watching the flames dance, Greg grinned at the memory, his heart filling with affection. John and Mary's idea of a weekend away from it all had almost literally been that - a cottage with no central heating, just a hearth with an Aga for warmth. Not that Molly Hooper was fazed; she had the fire going before the others had finished dragging the luggage in. Greg'd found himself falling head over heels in love with the quiet, extraordinary pathologist.

Moving closer, he knelt down in front of the sofa, his hand reaching out to softly push the strands of hair from her face. Feeling her soft cheek against his fingertips, he let them rest there, the tingling sensation running up his arm, across to his heart.

And he felt that ache in his touch, the longing to never stop touching her. The thought that if it hadn't been for Molly's determination, he wouldn't be there staring at the most beautiful, caring woman he'd ever known. Greg had told her that he was too old and broken for her but Molly would have none of it. Her gentle words and beautiful eyes convinced him that he was neither of those things to her.

A slight snuffle, her nose crinkling in that rather adorable way, and Molly moved her arms. Sitting back on his feet, he watched her slowly open one eye and then the other. Disorientated, she focused a few times and then a gentle smile spread across her face.

'Hey you.'

Reaching out, she took his hand, squeezing warmly. Feeling his heart stop and start at her touch, Greg brought her hand to his lips, slowly kissing her fingers. 'Hey sweetheart.'

He felt her hand squeeze his again, tighter. 'You're cold. You forgot them again.'

'It's chucking it down out there…' Grinning at her raised eyebrow. 'Yes, yes, I forget them again.'

'What am I going to do with you?'

Waggling his eyebrows at her, he laughed as she swiped at his arm. 'Not with those cold hands, mister.'

'I'm getting on a bit, Molly, I'm allowed to be forgetful.'

Straightening herself up on the sofa, she shook her head. 'You are not old, Greg.' Leaning forward, she placed a soft hand on his cheek, looking directly into his eyes.

Those eyes knew his heart, knew his feelings for her. And he saw in them whenever they kissed, whenever he brought his face down to hers, that she loved him. And that she didn't care he was 15 years older than her, that he was going... who was he kidding, that he had gone grey or that some mornings were definitely not as easy as others.

'I do feel it some days. But...' And he closed the small distance between them, leaning himself against the sofa, his cheek against her thigh.' ...with you, love, those are few and far between now.'

'Smoothie.' And he felt her fingers run through his hair, the ends of her short nails gently grazing against his scalp.

Goosebumps ran along his neck and down his back; Greg closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation, very glad that he'd grown it out. He'd hated the fact his hair had so quickly turned grey; s_ilver_, Molly would correct him. Figured it'd been stress and worry that had done it - the affairs, the divorce, everything to do with Sherlock. And he'd always thought that it made him look old. Until John and Mary's wedding when Molly's unintended confession made him see her in a rather different light.

Finding themselves sitting together, chatting while the few people they actually knew at the reception were off dancing, she'd shaken her head at his lament for his lost dark locks. Silver hair, she assured him, far from making him look old was actually rather sexy. And then, covering her mouth in mortification, her eyes wide, she blushed the most gorgeous deep pink and became rather engrossed in the wilting corsage pinned to her lovely yellow dress.

Greg had let the short stubbly cut grow out after that. Just for her.

Feeling her tender touch, he let the goosebumps run riot over his arms, his back, just all over really. Reaching out, he found her foot and wrapped his fingers around it, squeezing her toes beneath the thin socks.

Pulling against his hand, making him snap his eyes open at the sudden movement, she wriggled.

'Don't you dare,' she laughed.

'Sorry.' He sat up, hands held up in surrender. 'But you look so gorgeous when I tickle you.'

'Hmm.' Molly eyed him suspiciously and then pushed her foot against his stomach. 'Just watch yourself.'

Smiling, he grabbed her hand and kissed it swiftly. 'I'll be good. For now.'

And just the thought of spending the night in the same bed as Molly made him tingle from head to toe. He adored her and always enjoyed showing her just how much.

'I look forward to later then.' Leaning forward, she kissed his head. 'Oo, now what's in the bag?'

'Ah, yes, completely forgot. Sally's present. Said she didn't want to give it to me before Christmas Eve. No idea why not.' Reaching inside the bag, he grasped the neck of the bottle and pulled it out.

'Nice!'

Admiring the lovely light liquid - Macallan Gold - by the glow of the fire, he smiled. Sally knew him well; ten years working together had forged a close friendship between them, as well as getting to know each other's partialities. Greg was a sucker for a good whisky and Sally was one discerning tea connoisseur.

'Oh, and I've just the thing to go with that.' And Molly was leaning over the side of the sofa, reaching for the red and green tin on the little coffee table.

'Sherlock's been by?'

Greg recognised the tin from the previous Christmas - a late house warming gift, with a note in Sherlock's messy scrawl about how he hoped they'd be happy in their new home and that it would improve their concentration to finally be together all the time.

Nodding, she opened the lid and the most heady smell of alcohol imbued mince pies - Mrs Hudson's homemade mince pies - filled the room. They wouldn't last long in their house; neither would the whisky probably.

'He popped by the lab with them; wanted to exchange them for a kidney.' Smiling at the horrified expression on his face. 'Don't worry, I gave him an earful.'

'That's my girl.'

Hauling himself up off the floor, he walked over to the antique oak side board - all gorgeous solid knobbly and knotted wood, discovered in a tiny jumbled up shop only a few days after they'd bought the house. Molly had fallen in love with it and Greg'd insisted on buying for her; a Detective Inspector's salary could stretch to a piece of antique furniture. Grabbing the two tumblers, he joined her on the sofa as she scooted up into the corner.

The feel of her leg against his made his heart thud his chest, several times. He vividly remembered the day when she smiled reassuringly at him, their sides pressed together as more people had squeezed into the tiny Barts lift, and said that she would love to have coffee with him. Molly Hooper, the brave, intelligent, beautiful woman who had saved their lives, kept Sherlock's secret and been through her own heartache, fancied him. To have her love and to share a home, a life with her, Greg knew he was a very lucky man.

'Merry Christmas Eve, Molly.' He passed her the tumbler of whisky he just poured.

'Merry Christmas Eve, Greg.'

Clinking glasses together, he found himself only able to take one sip before Molly had her lips pressed warmly against his and her hand in his hair. Not that he was complaining.

* * *

><p><strong>A bit of Greg and Molly Christmas fluff. Fire, whisky, mince pies... and some rain! Many thanks for reading!<strong>


End file.
